


An Itch You Can't Scratch

by thegayemu



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Chicken Pox, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28900497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegayemu/pseuds/thegayemu
Summary: When Ciri comes down with chicken pox on their way to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier insists on taking care of her, certain he had it when he was a child. Unfortunately, he might be mistaken...(Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt #1)
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119530
Comments: 7
Kudos: 59
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	An Itch You Can't Scratch

**Author's Note:**

> Got to employ a few of my favorite Witcher sickfic tropes in this one, so I definitely had fun. Forgive me for the uninspired title lol.
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr :)](https://brasskier.tumblr.com/)

“Wait,” Geralt commanded, the heel of his palm pressed against Jaskier’s chest to physically hold him back. “It’s chicken pox. Yen and I can’t catch it, but you can.”

“My dearest witcher,” Jaskier replied, ducking back from Geralt’s arm. “I had it as a boy. Can’t get it twice.” With that assurance, Geralt relented, stepping aside.

“Better not keep her up,” he warned as Jaskier slipped onto the edge of the bed next to Yennefer, running a hand down Ciri’s back.

“Of course not.” Ciri shifted in the bed, smiled up fondly at him. “But music  _ is _ the best medicine.”

“That’s not how that works,” Yennefer interjected, narrowing her eyes at him. Ciri let out a giggle, muffled into the blanket. Back by the door, Geralt huffed, somewhere between amusement and annoyance.

A healer was, obsequiously and perhaps a bit dilatorily, brought around. They were left with good news (chicken pox was rarely severe in children, and would likely pass uneventfully), bad news (they were going to be holed up in this inn for a few days), and enough salves and herbs to keep Ciri comfortable and the itching at bay. 

Despite his best efforts (and gods bless him, Geralt really was trying), Jaskier was just naturally a better caretaker. Preparing baths, applying salve, singing her to sleep when she got restless. It was almost endearing to Geralt. Yennefer, for her part, was also managing a little better than he - maternal instinct, she’d reasoned, and Geralt understood. He was just decidedly well out of his comfort zone.

It was on day four, Ciri just beginning to turn the corner, that Geralt started to get an uneasy feeling. It started when Jaskier turned down lunch.

“I’m just not terribly hungry,” he explained, stroking a hand through Ciri’s hair. “Just happens sometimes. I’ll be hungry for dinner.” Geralt didn’t trust this, but when he glanced over at Yennefer she didn’t seem suspicious, so he dropped it.

When dinner did eventually roll around, and Geralt hauled their meal up to the room, Jaskier was still fast asleep with Ciri in his arms. The girl managed to extract herself from his grasp, and argued they should let him sleep.

“He’s been so tired taking care of me,” she reasoned between spoonfuls of stew. Yennefer shrugged.

“I suppose he can eat when he wakes.” He didn’t wake; rather, he slept straight through the evening, even when Ciri crawled back under the covers and pressed herself against his chest.

Geralt awoke that evening to Ciri clamoring out of the bed, shifting until he was sitting, careful not to wake Yennefer until she mumbled something sleepily into his ear.

“It’s too hot,” Ciri complained, and he motioned her over. Fever must be back, which was a damn shame, because Geralt had been pretty confident they’d kicked it. 

“Here,” he said as she crawled into his lap, letting out a grunt as she elbowed him in the process. Nestled against him, Geralt took uncertain note of the fact that she didn’t seem warm. He held her back at arm’s length, brow furrowed, bringing a hand to brush against her forehead. “Huh.” He nudged Yen, as if to silently say,  _ get a look at this.  _ Yen, too, copied the maneuver, and rose from the bed when she, too, found nothing out of the ordinary.

“I have a hunch,” she explained, crossing the room to the opposite bed, and rolling Jaskier over by the shoulder. He stirred lightly under her touch but didn’t wake, and she wasted no time in resting a palm to his forehead. Shaking her head, she brushed his bangs back and shifted to the side so Geralt could get a good look.

“Fuck,” Geralt exhaled, running a hand down the side of his face. Three red little spots sat just beneath Jaskier’s hairline. They were going to be stuck at this inn for a bit longer.

Jaskier awoke to unseen voices arguing around him, Ciri no longer nuzzled against him, and a pounding headache. When he finally blinked his eyes open, it was dark out, moonlight flooding in through the window and a single candle flickering on the table. Ciri was curled up on the other bed, and Geralt and Yennefer were…  _ well. _ He didn’t want to make assumptions and call it a row. But they were whispering more aggressively than Jaskier thought was possible. It was only when he pushed himself onto his elbows that the pair finally shut up, Geralt frowning at him and Yennefer approaching hesitantly.

“What’s going on?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, surprised by the croakiness of his own voice. Yennefer settled onto the edge of the bed, and Geralt planted himself in one of those rickety wooden chairs.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer said, in that tone of voice she usually reserved for talking to Roach or comforting Ciri after a nightmare. To an adult man, however, Jaskier couldn’t help but find it bordering on patronizing. “How are you feeling?” He furrowed his brow -  _ how was he feeling?  _ Annoyed, mostly, he decided.

“My head hurts, no thanks to you two and your bickering,” he grumbled, bottom lip jutting forward, pushing himself up further until he was up against the headboard. “What was all of that about, anyway?” Yennefer shot a bemused grin at Geralt, lips pressed together. Geralt only shook his head.

“You, uh--” she began before cutting herself off with laughter, pressing her palm over her mouth. He brought a hand up and itched at his hair - gods, did he need a bath - until Yennefer reached over and swatted at him. “Don’t scratch,” she scolded, hand still wrapped around his wrist, and his eyes widened in understanding.

“Oh,” he gasped, clutching a hand to his chest. “Oh, sweet Melitele, I have it?” Yennefer laughed again.

“You said you had it already,” Geralt huffed, sinking further into the chair. Any lower, and Jaskier was afraid he might just drop to the floor altogether. 

“Right, about that.” Jaskier tugged at one of his rings. “Might’ve been measles, actually.”  _ Definitely  _ had been measles. Geralt let out a tight-lipped sigh. He found his hand drifting towards his head again, Yennefer tugging at his elbow, and he groaned, slumping back down on the bed and burying his face against the sheets. 

"Just go back to sleep," Yennefer suggested, tugging the blanket back up to cover him. He was more than happy to oblige.

That lasted for about a whole hour before Jaskier was awake again, kicking at the blankets and rubbing at his chest through his shirt. Geralt was by his side this time - Yennefer and Ciri both asleep on the other bed.

"You can’t scratch," Geralt reminded him, both of Jaskier’s wrists held firm in his grasp despite the bard’s surprisingly forceful attempts to wrench them free. Finally, after a moment, he settled down, and Geralt eased him back on the bed.

"This sucks," he grumbled as Geralt tugged his chemise up, revealing several new clusters dotting his chest and stomach. Geralt remained silent for a moment, inspecting him discerningly.

"We have more of the salve," he offered eventually, nodding towards the assorted herbs and tinctures lining the dresser.

"No," Jaskier replied almost too immediately, shaking his head. "They’re for Ciri," he elaborated at Geralt’s raised eyebrow.

"Ciri doesn’t itch anymore." He plucked the salve off the dresser, depositing it in Jaskier’s lap. Jaskier stared up at him expectantly. "Not gonna happen," he grunted, returning to his bedroll and slipping into meditation. With a deep sigh and shaky fingers, Jaskier got to work. 

Daylight was finally trickling in through the window when Jaskier awoke again, jerking upright, one hand pressed against his mouth and the other grasping blindly at nothing. Someone deposited the chamber pot in his lap and he clung to it like a lifeline while the bed dipped and the unseen person rubbed circles against his back. After heaving unproductively for a bit, he let himself slump back.

"Done?" The person asked, and it was Yennefer. He nodded, dragging his sleeve across his mouth, and she took the pot from him and set it on the floor. 

"Sorry," he mumbled, shakily, finally blinking his eyes open just in time to watch Yennefer brush the hair from his forehead in a surprising display of tenderness. 

"Don’t be, you idiot." She helped him settle back, half on the bed and half in her lap, carding through his hair absentmindedly. "I’ll see if we have enough to brew you something for the fever." He grimaced at the thought of bitter tea, dreading having to force anything past his throat. "Just rest for now; I’ll wake you when it’s ready." 

Sure enough, some indeterminate amount of time later, he was hoisted up, a mug was pressed into trembling hands, and Geralt’s gruff voice was compelling him to drink. He didn’t even bother opening his eyes, choking down the tea blindly before drifting back to sleep.

Most of the day passed like this, fitful sleep punctuated by brief bursts of consciousness in which a dizzying rotation of Geralt and Yennefer would coax tea or bread into him and remind him not to scratch. Every time, more spots had appeared - on his torso, his limbs, his face.

"Easy," Yennefer’s steady tone settled him when he thrashed himself awake again, scooting further onto the bed and letting his head rest in her lap. He must be dying if she’s being so patient with him, he thinks, but the thought flits away just as quickly when he feels something cool press against his forehead. He squirmed a little under it, and Yennefer’s hold tightened. "We need to get your fever down," she reasoned. "Geralt’s gone for the healer; we ran out of herbs." He only groaned in response.

"It’s worse for adults," the healer was explaining the next time he slid back into consciousness. "But much the same. Worst of it should be over in another day or two." He lifted up Jaskier’s shirt, inspecting the blisters for a moment before resting the back of his hand to Jaskier’s forehead. "I’ll leave you herbs for the fever and some salve for the itching - stronger for him, of course." He paused at the door, turned to address Geralt, dropping his voice. "He has any trouble breathing and you come get me at once, understand? Any time of day."

The herbs didn’t help, at least not at first; nothing, of course, was going to prevent the rounds of scabs from running their course, and it seemed his temperature was determined to rise a little higher before breaking. Geralt had to take up a contract, once the last of Ciri’s spots had disappeared, to make up for their lost coin, and Jaskier foggily both celebrated Ciri’s recovery and mourned the absence of his witcher. 

Jaskier woke with a start, flinging himself upright and lunging from some unseen threat. Yennefer barely managed to keep him from careening off the bed altogether, wrapping both arms around him and holding him back against her chest.

"You have to tell me what’s wrong," she urged him as he trembled, raking through sweat-dampened hair. He curled in further on himself, pressing his face into her chest until it nearly hurt. "Jask, please. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me." 

"I’m sorry," he whimpered, eyes squeezed shut. "Everything itches and hurts, and I’ve wasted so much coin, and I’m sure you and Geralt must be sick of putting up with me." Yennefer let out a measured sigh, her hand stilling, and Jaskier mentally steeled himself to be left alone again.

"Geralt’s not mad at you," she said gently, bringing her hand down to rub his back, mindful of the friction against his blisters. "You were caring for Ciri. Of course he’s not." He nodded against her collarbone, shaky breaths starting to even out. "I’m not mad either," she all but whispered, reaching down to thumb a stray tear from his cheek. "We’re all just worried."

"Thank you, Yen," he mumbled, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. She squeezed back, scooting to the side and carefully lowering him back to the pillows. 

"I’m going to prepare some more tea. Do you want more salve?" He nodded wordlessly, only glancing back up when he felt the mattress dip and his chemise being unbuttoned. He allowed himself to drift off to the pleasant scent of chamomile as Yennefer gently applied the salve.

The next time he woke was to sweat-soaked sheets, clammy skin, and small limbs disentangling themselves from his own. 

"Yen! His fever broke!" He cracked his eyes open, coming face-to-face with Ciri’s wide grin. He couldn’t help but smile back. 

"How are you feeling?" Yennefer asked, fitting her palm over his forehead. 

"Much better," he replied, sitting up carefully. Yennefer seemed pleased with her findings, withdrawing her hand to ruffle briefly through his sticky hair. "Though it still itches, that’s for sure." 

"We can get you into the bath now that you’re feeling better," Yennefer offered, disappearing to the array of herbs on the dresser. Ciri took the opportunity to wrap her arms around him, tucking her head under his chin.

"I’m glad you’re better," she whispered, and he tugged an arm free to wrap around her shoulder. He liked quiet moments like these, where they weren’t contending with monsters and nightmares and the looming threat of Nilfgaard, where they could almost just exist like any other (albeit a little strange) family.

"Me too," he muttered back, squeezing her tight and looking forward, for the first time in as long as he could remember, to the impending winter. 

**Author's Note:**

> The ending was a little rushed but I hope you liked it anyway. Next request is suicide attempt, should be up in about a week.
> 
> You can find my board and send requests for BTHB over at [my Tumblr](https://brasskier.tumblr.com/)


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